


The Case of the Ringless Hand

by Syrena_of_the_lake



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Case Fic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 03:44:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5569744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrena_of_the_lake/pseuds/Syrena_of_the_lake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry and Jo try to negotiate the new fragile territory of truth. Meanwhile, a bizarre case reminds Henry of his days in medical school (the second time around) at the University of Edinburgh, and of his interactions with a fellow classmate and future author. Takes place shortly after the conclusion of Season 1… only I fudged the time of year a bit. 'Tis the season!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Infinitely stranger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [idelthoughts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idelthoughts/gifts).



> Idelthoughts, I was pleased and excited to draw your name in the Holiday Exchange! This was a fun story to write, and I hope you enjoy it.

 “Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent." – Sherlock Holmes in _A Case of Identity_

 

_New York City, Present day_

Lynn wrapped her arms around her boyfriend and smiled. "I love cooking together during the holidays," she said, stirring the unseen pot behind his back.

"Watch it," he laughed. "You'll get spaghetti sauce on my ass." He twirled her out and back into his arms, this time with Lynn's back to the stove. 

She flinched away from the heat. "Careful, Roger!" she snapped. "I could get burned."

"That's because I'm so hot," he teased, his mouth on her neck.

Lynn rolled her eyes and fought to hang onto her contented, romantic mood from a moment before. "I need to stir," she said, swatting ineffectually at his chest.

"I'll give you a stir," he retorted.

Lynn was about to say something – maybe give in to him, maybe tell him off, maybe just laugh at his horrible pun – but a movement in her peripheral vision caught her attention.

Her view was blocked by Roger's head and thick shoulders, but out of the corner of her eye, Lynn saw a hand, a pale hand holding a long serrated knife – one of her own kitchen knives, she noted with horror – and was drawing closer and closer to her throat… to Roger…

Lynn opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

The hand jerked out of her field of vision. Roger gurgled and fell to the floor. Paralyzed with fear, Lynn could only watch the knife move nearer to her own face. She twisted to escape her unseen assailant. The knife slashed downward, and her vocal chords finally released a desperate scream before she too fell to the floor.

* * *

The call came while Jo was still staring at Henry in shock. He wasn't even looking at her anymore. The whole convoluted story had poured out of him in a torrent, and she'd been afraid to interrupt. Afraid that, the moment he stopped talking, he'd simply disappear… Conventionally. Literally.

Damn the man. He'd even found a way to interrupt her own inner monologue.

Her cell rang again.

Henry tensed but didn't move. Jo slid her thumb across the screen. "Martinez," she answered, not even trying for normal. That had gone out the window about three hours ago, when she'd returned the photograph to Henry and barged her way into his secret.

 _The secret of immortal life_ , she thought. _Hysterical_.

"Homicide," Hanson was saying. "One attempted, one successful. About 10 blocks from Henry's place." He kept it Dragnet-short, pausing only a fraction of a second before adding, "Want me to pick you up?"

"Nope. Meet you there."

"Will Henry be coming, or should I bring Lucas?" There was a world of meaning behind that casual question, and Jo didn't know how to answer. "Everything's squared on this end, just like you asked. Knife's back in evidence, Lucas is sworn to secrecy, tape's been scrubbed, and Lieu doesn't want to know. No harm, no foul. So. Is Henry coming?"

Jo found her voice. "That's up to him. See you there."

Henry's gaze jerked up from the carpet. "Jo," he began, his voice anguished.

She held up a hand to forestall whatever ludicrous thing he was going to say next. _Don't tell me, there are little green men from Mars living in your basement._ "Save it," she said shortly. "We've got a body."

"Yes, of course." His shoulders sagged. "You have a job to do. I'll… I'll see you out."

Jo frowned at him, worry starting to clench in her gut. Then Abe barged through the kitchen door, so close on the heels of Henry's last sentence that he must have been eavesdropping.

"Get your pronouns straight, Pops. She said 'we.' I'll get your coat, yeah?"

Abe brushed by her and muttered, "He trusts you. You can trust him. Just remember that and it'll all be okay." The older man ( _younger?_ she wondered wildly) practically shoved Henry's arms into his coat. She could almost have laughed at the look on Henry's face, if so much of her mind hadn't been occupied with holding everything at bay–

She got through Sean's death that way. She could get through this, too. Henry's… whatever. Non-death. _Not now_ , she told herself firmly. "Let's go, Henry." She practically had to frog-march him out the door.

"May I inquire as to where we are going?" he asked quietly.

Jo's lip twitched. His grammar always got so old-fashioned when he was uncomfortable. _Old habits die hard_ , she thought, fighting the entirely inappropriate urge to giggle. "Where are we going?" she repeated gruffly. "Murder." Then she winced. "Not you, I – ugh."

Henry looked askance at her. Then, bizarrely, a smile tugged at his lips. "I wouldn't hold it against you, you know." His voice sounded almost normal, as if he hadn't just spent the past three hours talking himself hoarse telling her the singularly most impossible story she'd ever heard. For the first time, the panic and uncertainty and anger receded. He was still _Henry_.

"Do me a favor," she said abruptly.

"Anything."

Jo risked a squeeze of his hand. "Don't go anywhere. Not until we get a chance to talk."

He hesitated, fidgeted. Jo had the overwhelming impression of a skittish horse. "After the case?" Henry finally asked.

Whatever would keep him from pulling a Houdini and bolting before she could process… everything. "Yeah. After the case." She didn't know whether to hope for an open and shut case or not, but she knew it wouldn't effect Henry's findings one way or the other. Abe was right. She could trust Henry.

Now she just needed to find a way to believe him.

* * *

Henry frowned upon seeing the splatter. He'd never seen a crime scene so… _contaminated_.

"Gruesome, isn't it?" remarked Hanson.

Spaghetti sauce dripped from almost every vertical surface. A drop landed in Henry's hair, and he grimaced, adding the ceiling to his tally.

There would hardly be any need for a taped outline once they moved the body, Henry noted. The man was liberally coated in the sauce, with the darker stain of blood pooling and congealing around him. He had fallen backwards to the floor. His throat was slit, but the cut was curiously ragged – even more so than the serrated knife would account for.

"No fingerprints," continued Hanson. "Except for the other vic, that is, but it's her house."

Henry frowned again. "Another victim? Where is she?"

"Didn't Jo tell you? Oh. Ah… Yeah. She's alive. She was cut up pretty bad. Neck, shoulder, side… defensive wounds, too. No word from the hospital yet. EMTs were in and out, tried not to make too many footprints but, well…" Hanson gestured at the floor.

It was a shambles, to be sure. "I see. No matter. The living must come first."

From across the room, he heard Jo's sharp intake of breath. She hadn't said a word to him since they'd reached the crime scene, and his nerves were stretched to the breaking point. _Trust her_ , he reminded himself. After all they had been through together, how could he not?

And what other choice did he have?

"This is Roger Seabring, age 32. Parents deceased, only immediate family is a brother living in Baltimore. Originally from Philly. He was studying to become a chef." Hanson recited, making a face when he came to the profession. "Yeah, I know. Anyway, no priors, not many local connections."

"Aside from our other victim," said Jo, not meeting Henry's gaze. "The live one."

"Lynn Culver, 30. No siblings, parents also deceased, no immediate family to be notified. Her emergency medical contact was Seabring, so we're trying to track down a cousin upstate. She's  a local girl, works as an accountant at a small firm six blocks up the street. Just renewed her lease for a third year. No record except for a speeding ticket, successfully appealed."

"Seriously? Even Sean never managed that."

Hanson gestured at his phone and shrugged. "It says she said the pedal stuck."

"And the judge bought that?" Jo asked incredulously.

"There have been so many recalls in the past few years, it could very well have been legitimate," said Henry. Jo and Hanson both turned to stare at him. "I do read the news," he said defensively. "And not in six-second intervals, either."

"That's Vine. You're thinking Twitter – but close enough. Good job, Doc. We'll make a twenty-first century citizen out of you yet." Hanson clapped him on the shoulder.

Jo had a coughing fit. "Sorry," she croaked. "Must be too much oregano in the air."

"It could be the thyme," said Henry innocently. Jo leveled a glare at him and he winced. Apparently it was too soon for nervous jokes. Pity. Puns were almost as good as tea for breaking the tension.

Jo deliberately  turned her back to the two men in favor of examining the crisscrossed mess of footprints.

"Geez, Henry," muttered Hanson. "What did you _do_? Man, if looks could kill, you'd be on a slab in your own autopsy."

Henry laughed weakly. "I shall endeavor to avoid such a fate." When giving a non-answer, Henry had found it was best to use large words and formal syntax.

"Hey, what do you think of this?" Jo interrupted. The taut skin around her mouth was the only indication she had heard them. "It was in the pasta."

"Ah, an engagement ring." Henry peered at it through the evidence bag. "It could have been torn off, I suppose. I'll have to see her hand to be certain. But there's something else bothering me about our crime scene…"

"Me too," said Hanson. "I love Italian, but it will be a long time before I can look a meatball in the eye again."

Jo rolled her eyes and returned her full attention to Henry. "What's that?"

Behind her back, Hanson made a thumbs-up, grinned encouragingly at Henry, and moved stealthily away.

Henry strove valiantly not to react. "There was sauce all over our victim's body. The struggle happened _after_ he was killed."

"He never had a chance. His throat was slit from behind."

"Yes, and most inexpertly. But look at the footprints – no, there. The relatively clean patch in front of the stove. It's difficult to tell, of course, but it seems…"

"They're pointing the other way," said Jo slowly. "Lynn was facing Roger when he was killed."

"So why didn't she see the killer?"

"Maybe she did." Jo looked around. "Hey, Hanson! Any word from the hospital? I want to know as soon as we can interview our second victim."

Hanson jerked away from the kitchen table guiltily. The pamphlet in his hand was upside-down, Henry noted. "What? I wasn't listening," Hanson said quickly.

Jo snorted. "Sure you weren't. Just let me know about the hospital, okay? In the meantime, Henry and I need to cook some books. C'mon, Henry."

Their visit to the accountant proved tedious and uninformative. To his embarrassment, Henry found himself spending most of the interrogation gazing at the man's bookshelf. There was a compendium of Sherlock Holmes mysteries – nothing valuable, but it brought back memories of his days in medical school. The second time around, that is.

Perhaps it was because he had the idea of fresh starts on his mind.

* * *

_Edinburgh, 1877_

"Pardon me, but do I know you?"

As always, the innocent question sent Henry's heart racing. Pardonable, perhaps, given the circumstances. After what had happened with Nora – the second, more unforgivable time – he had fled London for the clean air and anonymity of Scotland.

No one here much cared where he was from, once they heard his very English accent. He was just one more man in a crowd.

Henry knew (re)enrolling in medical school was a risk, but he hoped it would be a slight one. He couldn't allow himself to fall behind in medical knowledge. Not to mention that he needed new qualifications to go with his new identity.

Henry forced a smile and turned around. But before he could speak, the lad (young man, Henry corrected himself ruefully; his own inexplicable condition sometimes gave him a strange perspective on others' ages) shook his head.

"I do apologize," he said. "I'm afraid I got it quite wrong. You look the same from the back, you see, as a fellow I knew at Stonyhurst. Older chap, about your height. He had the most magnificent scar. Do excuse me. I'm Arthur Doyle, medical student, and no, I haven't an ounce of the artistic talent of my uncle Richard. You might say I haven't got the _Punch_."

Henry laughed as was apparently expected of him, but he had no notion of what the lad was referring to. He had a vague recollection of a satirical publication by that name, and the lad's uncle must be rather famous judging by that introduction. _I really must stay more current with events_ , he reproached himself. He couldn't afford to ignore cultural touchstones.

"A pleasure to meet you, Arthur. I'm Mortimer," he introduced himself. "Mortimer Holmes."

* * *

_New York City, Present day_

Jo launched into a tirade on the evils of the tax code almost before they were out the door.

Henry was delighted. For a moment, things between them felt normal again. It couldn't last, of course. But it was such a relief after the stress of the past few days…

"Earth to Henry." Jo yanked his arm and Henry teetered, off balance, on the edge of a curb. "Easy there!" She looked at him wide-eyed. "You just about walked into traffic, Henry!"

What did it say about him that his heart was racing more from the contact with her than it was from the idea that he could have been run over? So much for normalcy. "There are worse ways to go," he murmured. He could hardly begin to decipher the expression on her face.

"If you're trying to prove something to me," she said finally, " _don't_." The light turned, and Jo pulled Henry into the crosswalk, gently this time. "You have the self-preservation instincts of a dodo."

 _Now_ she was joking? An eternity, decided Henry, still wouldn't be enough time for him to understand women. "Ah, but the dodo is extinct, my dear, whereas I am still here." Then he worried that his reply had sounded more self-pitying than jocular, so he added, "Abe compares me to a lemming."

Jo snorted. "A lemming Don Quijote, tilting at traffic lights." She had not yet let go of his arm. Henry's spirits rose a little. Perhaps there was hope for them yet.

Then her phone rang, and Jo released her hold on Henry's elbow to answer. "She is? That's great news, Mike. Thanks. Does Henry want to talk with the surgeon?" She raised her eyebrows in mute inquiry. Henry nodded. "Yup. We're almost back to the car – we'll be there in twenty." She tapped the screen to end the call.

What would future generations think of the archaic idiom _to hang up_ , Henry wondered idly. With his luck, he'd still be around to see it.

"Shotgun?" asked Jo.

Henry looked at her blankly. "Not my first choice of firearm."

"The _car_ , Henry. Haven't you ever heard of riding shotgun?"

"Not since the last time I rode in a stagecoach, no."

Jo rolled her eyes. "Just get in the car, Henry." She was trying not to smile, he noted.

The tightness in Henry's chest eased. Maybe, just maybe, they would be all right.

 


	2. However improbable

"How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?" – Sherlock Holmes in  _The Sign of the Four_

 

_New York City, Present day_

"Ma'am? Ma'am! It's all right. Everything's going to be okay."

Jo and Henry could hear the raised voices from the moment they entered ICU. When they reached Lynn Culver's room, they were greeted by a bizarre tableau: a nurse was restraining the patient, who was pounding the bedrail with one hand and clutching at her chest with the other.

"It's _not_ all right!" she screamed. "It's not, it's not, it's not! Roger's dead. Oh God, Roger…" Her litany dissolved into incoherent sobs.

"Do you need a hand?" Jo asked the nurse, but it was Henry who stepped to the bedside and clasped one bruised, shaking fist in his hand, expertly fending off the attempted blows while disentangling the IV tube.

"Hush," he soothed. "I know. Just breathe."

"Roger," Lynn whimpered.

"Yes, I know. Just hush a moment. Breathe in and out… that's it."

The nurse glanced at Jo, who showed her badge. "He's a doctor," she said.

Uncertain, the nurse looked over at Henry, who had succeeded in calming Lynn's frantic thrashing. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but for the moment she was still. "I'll have to clear it," said the nurse.

Jo nodded absently, engrossed despite herself by the sight of Henry the doctor, tending to living people. Which, if he was to be believed, he had done for longer than Jo had been alive.

Her partner was older than modern medicine.

Jo blanched and braced herself discreetly against the wall. Henry being Henry, though, he noticed and shot her a look of concern. She waved it off and pulled a chair over to the bed. "Miss Culver? I'm Detective Martinez. This is Doctor Morgan. We're so sorry for your loss."

"Call me Lynn," the woman whispered.

"Lynn. I know it must be hard, but do you think you can answer a few questions?"

Lynn let go of Henry's hand and gripped the bedrail. "I… I'll try."

"Did you see who did this?"

"No." She sniffed. "Roger was kissing me. My neck. I couldn't see anyone."

"Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?"

Lynn started to shake her head, and Henry spoke up. "Something small," he suggested. "A reflection, a shadow, a motion out of place…"

"I saw something move," she said slowly, "out of the corner of my eye. It was a hand." Lynn started to shake, her white-knuckled fingers clutching at the blanket. "A horrible hand!"

"Were there any identifying marks?" asked Jo. "Scars, tattoos, jewelry?"

Lynn shrugged helplessly. "I don't know." She ran her fingers over the bedrail, then reached over and started scratching at her IV site.

Henry clasped her wandering hand in his own. "Tell me what you did see," he said. "Was it a large hand? Small?"

Lynn shook her head slowly.

"Medium, then. Was it hairy?"

She shook her head again.

"Wrinkled?"

"No."

This was going nowhere fast. "Was it a man's hand or a woman's?" asked Jo.

Lynn closed her eyes. "I remember it was pale," she stammered. "A pale, ringless hand, grasping… it had a knife... it killed Roger!" She began to rock back and forth, and then violently wrenched her hand out of Henry's. "I _loved_ him. I loved him and it killed him! And then it tried to kill me!"

An alarm started beeping. Henry leaned forward, trying to keep Lynn from injuring herself. "No one can hurt you in here. You're safe now. Do you understand?"

"I'll kill it!" she cried, thrashing. Jo ran to the door, searching for a nurse or a doctor – anyone who could administer a sedative. A crash from the bedside made her spin around. The pitcher of water had been knocked over, and a startled Henry was kneeling in a puddle. "Did she startle you?" he asked Lynn intently, squeezing her arm.

The question made Lynn pause her struggling. "Who?"

"Detective Martinez," said Henry. "Over there, by the door."

Lynn turned to face Jo. "No," she said slowly, frowning. "I'm thirsty." Jo blinked at the _non sequitur_ , which seemed to leave Henry shaken.

Then a team of nurses rushed in, and Jo gratefully gave way. "Henry," she hissed. "Let's go."

"One moment," he said. "This is important. Lynn, can you give me your hand?" Lynn obediently raised her right hand, now untethered from the IV. One of the nurses glared at Henry as she moved to reattach the drip. "Thank you," said Henry, "but I meant the other one." Lynn didn't move, but her left hand twitched on the coverlet. Henry picked it up gently. "That's the one." He squeezed her hand. "Now close your eyes." Lynn obeyed.

"You people need to leave," interrupted the nurse."

"Yes, yes! Just one more moment." Henry turned Lynn's palm over and tickled it. She giggled. "Why are you laughing?" asked Henry in an offhand tone. Jo opened her mouth to ask him what the hell he was playing at, but Henry caught her eye and shook his head urgently.

Lynn, her eyes still closed, shrugged one shoulder. "I guess I felt like it. Must be the drugs." Her voice was slurred.

"Yes, of course. We'll let you rest now." Henry rose from her side, looking if anything even more troubled than before. He followed Jo out of the room; one of the nurses closed the door firmly behind them.

"Keep a close eye on her," Henry called through the door.

"I can have a guard posted," suggested Jo, trying to ease his mind. "In case the killer returns."

"It's not the killer I'm worried about," muttered Henry.

Jo made the call anyway.

* * *

_Edinburgh, 1878_

The two men strolled in the shadow of the Castle Rock, the black crag looming above them like something out of a Gothic novel. Henry couldn't get enough of the city: the air was so clean and the sky so blue... except on rainy days, but there were just as many of those in London as made no difference. All in all, he found Scotland quite bracing. It made the tedium of revisiting medical school much more bearable. There were differences, of course - and several of the professors were truly fascinating.

One in particular had captured the keen interest of his friend Arthur.

"Holmes, my dear man!" protested Doyle. "You cannot mean to tell me that Dr. Bell made ordinary observations. The man seems endowed with psychic powers. You yourself just witnessed him diagnose a case of consumption when the patient himself – a medical man, one of our own classmates – had not the faintest notion he was ill."

Henry scoffed. "Listen to yourself, Doyle. Psychic powers. Why, it is simple observation and deduction. There is nothing mystical about it. I could have told you the man was ill, _possibly_ with consumption, based on his waistcoat alone."

"You must be joking."

"The garment was of modern fashion, meant to be close-fitted, and yet it hung loose on his frame. Ergo, recent weight loss. One symptom of consumption." Henry smirked.

"But would you have made the connection from one symptom alone?" Doyle prodded.

"Of course not! That would be folly, and dangerous medicine. I would merely have said the man was ill, and should see a licensed physician for a full examination. Dr. Bell was attempting to prove a point, and surely had a closer vantage from which to observe any obstruction in breathing, sweat on the brow, etcetera." Henry leveled a stern look at his friend. "The observation of trifles can be a mere parlour trick, or it can be valuable evidence in a learned, _well-reasoned_ diagnosis."

Doyle barked a laugh. "You are a queer fellow, Mortimer Holmes. You should write a book. _The Book of Twaddle_ , you could call it: how to fathom a man's innermost thoughts by the pattern upon his pocket-handkerchief."

Henry smiled. "That would be folly indeed. You are the writer, Arthur, not I. And should you ever write a book, I am sure it would be most adventurous."

"Adventurous twaddle, you mean." Doyle laughed at himself good-naturedly. "But tell me, good doctor, does the gleam in my eye or the twist of my foot give your perspicacious mind a glimpse into my innermost thoughts?"

"No," replied Henry, "but I smell roast duck from the White Hart Inn, which is doubtless where you have been guiding me these past few turns. That, and I fancy I hear a faint growling noise from your stomach. In my humble but expert opinion, the diagnosis is one of extreme hunger."

"Holmes, you read my mind."

* * *

_New York City, Present day_

"What's bothering you?" Jo asked quietly. Their footsteps echoed in the hallway. Jo could never have been a doctor; she hated hospitals. Hated the sterile white walls, the smell of antiseptic, the hushed conversations and beeping monitors.

Although it must be worlds better than some of the hospitals Henry had seen earlier in his lifetime.

"Did you notice the ring finger of her right hand?" Henry asked in an indirect response to her question.

"I'm guessing raw skin where her ring was torn off. Is that why you were so focused on her hands?"

Henry shook his head absently. "Why would the killer take the ring and then drop it on the floor?"

Jo frowned. "Maybe in his hurry to escape–"

"Or her," corrected Henry, "Lynn couldn't say."

"I'm not sure how reliable her account is, Henry." Jo hated to say it, but there had been something _odd_ about Lynn Culver. Something off.

"I wonder…" Henry trailed off into silence and said nothing further until they emerged from the hospital into the cold December sunshine.

Jo breathed a sigh of relief. The near-freezing temperatures may numb her face and chap her skin, but at least the very air wouldn't leave her lungs feeling scrubbed raw like it did inside the hospital.

"Wanna go for a walk?" she asked impulsively.

She watched Henry shake off the weight of his thoughts – or memories, she realized, and with difficulty she refrained from asking him what he was remembering this time.

"Of course." Henry smiled, his cheeks already pink from the cold. Before she knew what she was doing, Jo had stepped closer to tuck Henry's scarf more securely into his coat.

Puffs of their breath mingled between them.

Jo latched onto Henry's lapels like a lifeline.

"Despite… everything," Henry began haltingly. "I fear I'm not very practiced at this."

Jo snorted. "At walking?"

"We're standing still, Jo."

She swallowed. She hadn't meant to have this conversation today, but she wasn't about to let the opportunity pass her by. "We have been for a while, haven't we? At least now I know why."

Henry looked pained. He didn't pretend to misunderstand; she supposed that was something resembling progress. "Jo, I cannot express to you how much I wish I had done things differently–"

Jo's patience wore out. "Will you shut up and listen to me? I'm not blaming you, Henry! I'm trying to tell you that I get it!" God, the man was a martyr.

She really had to stop using death metaphors.

 _Cue hysterical laugher_ , she thought. _How does he not choke on the irony?_

Henry's hands had settled on her hips, but lightly, as if warding her off rather than embracing her. For some reason, it made Jo angry.

"Forgive the observation," Henry said tentatively, "but it does rather seem as though you _do_ blame me. Not that I don't deserve it!"

Jo groaned and let her head sink forward onto his shoulder. He really didn't get it, did he? She hadn't left, she hadn't let herself be driven away. She wasn't going anywhere. Yet Henry was still putting up barriers. "This is a mess, Henry," she mumbled into his coat.

"Agreed." To her relief, he chuckled. "Welcome to my life."

"Am I?" Jo didn't dare look at him.

"Are you what?" Henry's voice was puzzled.

"Welcome in your life." His wool coat scratched her chin as she spoke.

Henry's arms suddenly tightened around her. "Most assuredly, my dear," he whispered. "Unequivocally. Resoundingly."

Jo grinned like a fool into his shoulder. "Why can't you just say yes like a normal person?"

His laugh reverberated through her bones. "I think we have established that I am not precisely normal. And, correct me if I'm wrong, but weren't we going to wait with this conversation until after the case?"

"Yeah, well, I'm of two minds about that."

Henry pulled away abruptly, leaving Jo craving the lost warmth. "What's wrong?"

"I must get back to the office."

"Now?"

"Immediately!" He caught her mittened hand and towed her along off-balance behind him.

"Henry – what the hell?" Jo managed.

Henry was once more charged with energy. "My dear detective, I think you just solved the case."

* * *

Lucas gave Jo a questioning look when they burst into the room. Henry made a beeline for his office; Jo shrugged helplessly. "Apparently I solved the case," she said.

"Happens to me all the time," Lucas replied, deadpan.

Henry emerged a moment later with a book.

" _The Origins of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind_ ," Jo read off the spine. "Henry, only you would have a book with a _title_ that puts me to sleep."

"I've read it," Lucas piped up. "Well, it was mandatory in psych class, but I still read it. He kind of lost me when he took 'shrooms to prove the existence of God. Or maybe it was disprove?" Jo stared at him. "The author, not my psych prof," he clarified. "Though I kinda get the feeling that my prof may have meddled with a few mushrooms back in the day… you know… like you do…"

"If you're finished with fungi, Lucas, please tell Jo what you remember about the split brain experiments while I consult another reference." Henry dropped the book on Lucas's desk with a _thud_ and disappeared back into his office.

"Split brain experiments?" echoed Jo.

She watched with amusement as Lucas adopted Henry's typical lecturing posture. "In the 1960s, a series of experimental surgeries were performed in an attempt to cure uncontrollable epilepsy. Basically, they severed the corpus callosum, which connects the two halves of the brain. Sperry and Gazzaniga are famous for studying the results."

"Which were…?"

"Bizarre," said Lucas fervently. "The left brain can only see out of the right eye and act with the right side of the body, and vice-versa for the other hemisphere. And since the speech center is in the left hemisphere, people who saw things only with the right side of the brain couldn't talk about it, because the information never got to the left side."

Jo frowned. "So… it's like the wires are crossed?"

"More like the wires are cut. It's like having two brains in one body – sometimes they work together, sometimes they don't. The left hand literally doesn't know what the right hand is doing."

A sense of foreboding made Jo shiver. "Give me an example."

"Like, one guy tried to pull his pants up with one hand, and his other hand tried to pull them down," offered Lucas.

"A crude but effective example," said Henry. He massaged his forehead. "In another and more pertinent instance, a man attempted to strike his wife with one hand – and tried to stop himself with the other hand. Conflict like that was rare, but it did happen."

"But you said all that was back in the sixties," protested Jo. "Are you saying Lynn Culver is one of these patients?"

"No, of course not, she is far too young. But some kind of anomaly could conceivably produce a similar effect – a birth defect or tumor, perhaps."

Jo shivered. "Okay, so how do we prove it?"

"First we must rule out the other alternatives. Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

"Great Sherlock reference, Doc!" exclaimed Lucas. "Meet me up high." He held his hand up and wilted slightly when Henry looked at him blankly. "Down low?"

Jo suppressed a smile. "Okay, Henry, this is your show. What now?"

"We seek the truth. Wherever it takes us."


	3. Indefinite doubt

"Any truth is better than indefinite doubt." - Sherlock Holmes in _The Yellow Face_

"Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a changing age." - Sherlock Holmes in _The Last Bow_

_New York City, Present day_

"I'm always the victim," Lucas muttered. "That wasn't in the job description."

Henry paused, knife in hand. "Recreating the scene of the crime is important, Lucas. In this case, I believe it is absolutely essential."

Jo lounged against Lucas's desk and grinned. "If we're going for authenticity, you two need a good bath in spaghetti sauce." Oh, those twin glares were just too adorable. "I could run to the store and get some Ragu," she offered.

"Firstly, store-bought sauce is hardly worthy of the term. Secondly, _no_."

Jo snickered. Trust Henry to keep his priorities straight.

Lucas pantomimed stirring. "So… what's next? You come at me from behind, right?"

Jo choked. Henry heaved a long-suffering sigh before taking Lucas by the shoulders and spinning him around. "The hand came thus," he began.

"We're missing something," interrupted Jo. "Aren't we trying to rule out a third party? I'll be the disembodied hand," she offered.

"Very well," said Henry. "Lucas, you shall be Roger. Their arms were likely around each other like so–"

"Your turn, Jo," said Lucas quickly, darting out of the way and shoving Jo into his place. Henry's arms closed around her and they blinked at each other.

_Well. Damn._

"Whoops, sorry folks," Lucas made a production out of glancing at his phone. "Gotta run! I have a thing. Kthanksbye!"

Jo watched in fascination as a little crease developed between Henry's eyebrows. His arms were still around her. As fascinating as it was to watch his thinking process, and as – no, she wasn't going to assign an adjective to how being in his arms made her feel – in any event, Jo was getting more uncomfortable with every passing moment. It may have had something to do with Lucas's not-so-subtle exit. Or with the way Henry's fingers were unconsciously rubbing circles in the small of her back.

Henry frowned absently after his assistant. "Even for Lucas, that display was quite…"

"Spastic?"

"Unusual."

Jo looked up and started laughing. "Maybe not. I spy with my little eye something green," she said in a singsong voice.

"Bile samples?"

"Ew! No. Look up."

Jo wished she had a camera to capture the expression on Henry's face when he saw the mistletoe. "I can think of more romantic settings," he commented after a moment.

"Without bile samples," she agreed. "Rain check?"

"Did you know that phrase originated in the 1880s? The early days of American baseball were quite fascinating–"

Jo laughed and took a step back. "Way to kill the mood, Henry. Joking," she added, when he looked crestfallen. "Later," she promised. "Now, tell me what you were thinking earlier."

He smiled slyly. "I thought you said _later_ , Detective."

"The case, Henry. Share," she prompted.

"Very well," he acquiesced. "I believe that Lynn Culver is suffering from some impedance of the corpus callosum, and that she attacked Roger with one hand while the other hand attempted to fight her off."

"What's the motive?" Jo made a face. "Can a hand even have a motive?"

"It's not just the hand, Jo, it's the _brain_!" Henry seized her hands in his own. "When I tickle your left hand, you giggle."

"I don't giggle – Henry, _stop_!" she laughed. "Okay, fine. You tickle, I giggle."

"In that process, a signal is sent from your left hand to the right side of your brain. The right hemisphere communicates with the left, and so that information is available to the speech center to articulate." He glanced at her and Jo nodded to show she understood. "When I tickled Lynn Culver's left hand, she laughed – but she could not tell me why. She had to invent a reason. Something the left brain is rather gifted at, I might add."

"Retroactively justifying actions?"

"More like reasoning based on the available data. Which in Lynn's case is extremely limited. Each half of her brain has only a partial view of what is happening around her. One side of her mind may have interpreted some action of Roger's as an attack; when he was attacked, the other half tried to defend him."

"Can we prove it?" Jo asked bluntly.

Henry sighed. "With time, tests and Lynn's cooperation? Probably. Still, it would be a nightmare of a case to try."

 Jo hugged herself. "I can't imagine knowing I killed my fiancé… or that half of me did. Do you think she realizes?"

"Almost certainly not."

Jo swore softly. "Maybe it's better she doesn't know."

Henry sighed heavily. "Setting aside my personal history," he said, clearly troubled, "if I have learned one thing over the years, it's that the truth always comes out in the end. For good or ill."

Before Jo could begin to formulate a reply, Henry's office phone rang. Henry rushed to his desk to answer. "Hanson? Why are you – what's happened?" As he listened, Henry sank into a chair. His face paled. For the first time, Jo looked at him and saw an old man beneath the youthful face. "My God," Henry whispered. "Yes, Jo is here. Of course. I'll tell her. Thank you." Henry replaced the phone in its cradle gently.

" _If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee_ ," quoted Henry, his voice thick with emotion.

"What happened?" she asked with trepidation.

"The case is closed, Jo. Lynn Culver is being transferred to a secure psych ward, following her stay in intensive care." He took a deep breath. "She managed to cut off most of her left hand with a stolen pocketknife. The remainder had to be amputated."

* * *

  _Edinburgh, 1880_

"Do you ever think on the afterlife, Holmes?"

The question caught Henry off-guard; he sputtered into his glass of scotch. "Beg pardon," he stammered.

"Life after death. Do you ever think on it?"

Henry managed to swallow. The normally smooth whisky seemed to burn all the way down into his gullet. "Frequently."

"I wonder what it's like." Doyle's voice was uncommonly wistful. "Might we walk among our fellow men but on another plane? What wonderful travels the spirit must have after death!

A little tipsy, Henry was somewhat less than his usual discreet self. "I," he declared solemnly, "will have to see it before I believe it."

Emerging from his reverie, Doyle chuckled. "Ever the scientist, Holmes. You wouldn't admit the sky is blue if you couldn't prove it, would you?"

Henry naturally protested such an extreme depiction of his fondness for the scientific method. This in turn naturally led to Doyle inviting him to another drink in mocking apology ("so you may test the proof of it, my good man"). Their existential conversation forgotten, they proceeded to regale the White Hart with a rousing sea shanty Doyle had learned during his recent voyage to the Arctic Circle.

Nothing more would be said on the subject of death – at least, not on that merry occasion.

* * *

_New York City, Present Day_

The case was indeed closed, though it left a hollow feeling in the pit of Jo's stomach. There was no bad guy to put away, no satisfaction in taking a killer off the streets. 

"What I don't understand is Lynn's preoccupation with a _ringless_ hand," she said, trying to distract herself from the gruesome details of how it all ended. _You think you've seen it all._ It must be even worse for Henry, she realized.

Henry ran a hand through his hair. Jo had the sudden urge to smooth it back.

"Maybe it's because her ring was torn off," she posited, trying to draw him into conversation.

"Yes! An engagement ring would be worn on the right hand, as opposed to…" he trailed off and they looked at each other in dawning horror.

"The left," Jo finished for him, feeling sick. They had their murderer after all: Lynn Culver's left hand, which was currently lying in an autopsy freezer.

It took a few days, but Henry somehow convinced Lt. Reece and the hospital administration to allow him once final visit with Lynn. Jo went with him. How could she not?

She watched as Henry crouched by Lynn's bedside and lied outright. "We caught the killer," he repeated until her sobs subsided. "The killer will never harm anyone again – you helped make sure of that. It's all over now."

When they finally left, Henry was in as black a mood as Jo had ever seen. She tried to set aside her own nausea over the case to comfort him, but he was predictably stubborn about it.

So she turned to the big guns: she enlisted Abe.

"It's not your fault, Dad." Abe pried his father's clasped hands apart and shoved a mug of tea between them.

"I'm 235 years old."

"236 soon. I'm buying candles in bulk."

" _Abe_. I am the most experienced doctor on the entire planet."

Jo looked at Abe. "Is he always like this?"

"Meh. He gets episodes. Like a woman on her period."

"Regular or irregular?" asked Jo.

" _Abraham_!" Scandalized, Henry looked between the co-conspirators in dismay. "That is hardly appropriate conversation for the dinner table!"

Abe looked at his father seriously. "Good. Now that we've got your attention, listen up: it's _not your fault_ , Pops."

Henry shook his head. "I should have been able to help her somehow."

"You may be immortal," said Jo, somehow managing to utter the word without stumbling, "but you're still _human_ , Henry. And that means you're not perfect. You're not omniscient. You're fallible and limited just like the rest of us."

"It seems to me," said Abe, "that police work and medicine are a lot alike. You can't win them all, and not every story gets a happy ending."

Jo reached over to squeeze Henry's hand. "You gave her some comfort in the end. And I suppose it was the truth, in a way."

Henry closed his eyes. But he let her keep holding his hand – and that, thought Jo, was at least a start.

* * *

_Edinburgh, 1886_

"Truth is not subjective!" exclaimed Henry. "Listen to reason, Arthur. These _spiritualists_ , as they call themselves, cannot hold the answers you seek."

Doyle brushed past Henry out of the confines of the narrow close, emerging into Grassmarket. "I don't see you trying to convert Miss Fairlaine. Or Mrs. McGovern. I would think you'd be trying to rescue them from the clutches of the so-called villains–"

Henry threw up his arms in exasperation. "It saddens me to see them taken in by this farce, yes. However, if it gives them comfort to believe they are speaking with the spirits of their deceased relatives, it is hardly my place to interfere. But Arthur, you are a man of _science_!" Henry gripped his friend's arm. "I implore you–"

"To what? To see reason? Holmes, my friend, I must name a book after you," declared Doyle. "No, a man – a character. An implacable force of observation, deduction and _reason_ , a man swayed by no emotion!" At the despair on his friend's face, Doyle relented. "That's not quite fair to you, I suppose. But it would make a marvelous story."

"Arthur. Séances? Spirits knocking on the table? It is not _real_. This spiritualism nonsense, it's mere superstition, it's…"

Doyle smiled sadly. "Twaddle? Perhaps. But what did Hamlet say? _'_ _There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'_ What can I say? I believe in unsolved mysteries, Mortimer."

As always, the false name produced a sort of double-vision in Henry's psyche, a superimposition of reality. When he faced the truth of his own circumstances, Henry could hardly fault Doyle. Nor could he form any sort of rebuttal without feeling the utter hypocrite. "I cannot agree with you," Henry said at last, "but neither can I argue with you any longer."

Doyle clapped him on the shoulder. "You are a fixed point in a changing world, my friend, and I am most grateful. If I do name a character after you, I shall do my best to make him a smashing good one. Who knows? Perhaps he might outlive both of us!"

Overcome by a sudden rush of warmth for his companion, Henry could only marvel at the man. Perhaps Doyle's approach, while flawed, had some merit: embrace the unknown, charge after the unfathomable, embark on impossible quests! "Come, join me at the White Hart. Let us drink to new mysteries," Henry proposed impulsively. 

"And to old times," added Doyle.

They entered the inn, where their laughter soon mingled with other patrons' and drifted out into the night.

* * *

_New York City, Present day_

The Christmas holiday passed in a blur.

Abraham was likely responsible for the impromptu dinner party, although Henry suspected Jo may have had a hand in it as well. (His spirits had almost recovered to the point where that expression wouldn't make him wince.) He exchanged polite, lighthearted gifts with Jo, Hanson and Lucas. After their guests departed, he and Abe shared their regular celebration in private: sparkling grape juice and silent movies, the same way they had spent Christmas night every year since Abe was old enough to remember.

Granted, their improvised dialogue had become a little more ribald over the years, but the sentiment was the same.

And then Henry found himself staring at the calendar: December 30, 2015. How strange to think that so much had happened within a single year. Yet he could not escape the niggling feeling that one momentous occasion remained: there was one more thing he had to do before he could ring in the new year with a clear conscience.

"Invite her over," said Abe from across the chess board.

"Beg pardon?"

Abe tapped a pawn against the table. "You've been staring at your knight for the past ten minutes. It's not going anywhere. Call her."

"And say what?" Henry raised his hands in exasperation, or perhaps desperation.

Abe rolled his eyes. "Invite her over for dinner. Drinks. A New Year's kiss. Whatever, Henry, just _call her_."

Henry didn't dignify that remark with a response. But he did make the call.

Jo came bearing a bottle of champagne. Abe wagged his eyebrows. "You kids be good. I'll be in the kitchen."

"Don't mind him," said Henry, embarrassed. "He's been sampling his own cooking again – a bit too much sherry, in my opinion."

Jo smiled. "He didn't lay any mistletoe traps, did he?"

"Heaven forbid." Henry rolled his eyes expressively. "He laughed so hard when I told him that I was afraid he might rupture something."

"Henry…"

He held his breath, waiting for her question like a prisoner awaiting his sentence from the judge.

"Does this mean you're ready to talk? About… everything? Pick up where we left off?" Jo's question was uncommonly tentative.

The entire year culminated in that moment. When he spoke, Henry's voice was clear and strong. "Yes."

* * *

_London, 1887_

Henry turned the pages of _Beeton's Christmas Annual_ absently. He nearly didn't recognize his name in print when he saw it, for of course it was not truly his name. It wasn't even his old false name – not entirely.

But the moment the character with the half-familiar name was described as "a little too scientific" and as having "a passion for definite and exact knowledge," the penny dropped.

Henry's eyes tracked up to the author. Without surprise, he read Arthur Conan Doyle's name. "I'll be damned," he said softly to himself. "The old boy went and did it."

And then Henry laughed as he hadn't laughed in years. In fact, the only time that surpassed it in the whole of the 19th century was when he read of the death – and subsequent resurrection – of the detective Sherlock Holmes.

Even the purest fiction, Henry decided, carried some element of truth.

* * *

_New York City, Present day_

"Every lie I told you had an element of truth," Henry told her. He couldn't count the lies anymore, couldn’t remember them all even if he tried – but he was sure it was true.

Mostly true, at any rate.

Jo frowned absently, as if tallying up every conversation they'd ever had. Henry tried to cover his wince by reaching for his glass of scotch. It was empty. Abe had stopped hovering hours ago, which meant the ice had all melted and the bottle had disappeared – whether put away in the liquor cabinet or appropriated for his own use was a toss-up, but the end result was the same.

Henry had nothing to do with his hands. No scotch to drink, no test tubes to fiddle with, no fountain pen, no watch (Jo had taken it from him to study and he hadn't the heart to ask her to return it – he might never have the heart to ask her for anything ever again)…

Henry closed his eyes. "I tried to tell you the truth whenever possible, Jo, you must believe that–"

Her hand covered his, jolting Henry from his thoughts. He nearly knocked the empty glass off the table. "You know I believe you," said Jo.

Startled, Henry looked at her face. Her eyes were still rimmed with red, her lip a little swollen from biting it too many times (and he would _not_ think further on her lips, Henry told himself sternly). But the tightness in her face was gone.

Jo squeezed his hand. "I said I _believe_ you, Henry. All of it." She laughed – a little shakily, but she _laughed_. "God help me."

He swallowed. Just like that. He had thought Abigail was the only person in the history of the world capable of such trust, such forgiveness.

"Jo," he began hoarsely. "I…" but the words rose up in his throat and choked him. Tears collected in the corners of his eyes. He reached blindly for a handkerchief, but Jo had that too – he had given it to her hours ago…

"Here," she said softly, handing it back to him. "You need this more than I do."

"C. S. Lewis," Henry responded, automatically citing the reference.

Jo smiled. "Good catch. I grew up on the Narnia books. Did you…" she trailed off and removed her hand from his.

The air was cold where her touch had been.

"Did I what? Ask me anything, Jo. I swear to tell you the entire truth, as best as I know it."

Her question came slowly. He could tell she was taking great pains to avoid her normal interrogation techniques. While Henry appreciated the gesture, he couldn't help wondering when the other shoe would drop.

"Did you know him?" she blurted.

It took a moment for her meaning to penetrate. "Who, Lewis?" Henry started to shake his head, and then turned it into a shrug. "I know he was wounded in the Battle of the Somme. I was there, so I may well have treated him, but…" As always, the memories surged up. _No._ This was important. He had to stay with Jo, he had to stay _present_ –

She squeezed his hand again. Her touch was so warm.

"I've treated thousands of patients, Jo. So many in wartime. I wish I knew every face, ever name, but…" Henry cleared his throat. "Even I can't remember them all." He would remember Lynn Culver's name, though – forever.

They sat in silence for a long while after that. "Tell me something else," said Jo, shifting closer to him. "Something no one else knows."

"Abe knows almost everything, I'm afraid," he replied lightly. "There are a few stories of the sort a man would never share with his son, of course, but I'd be rather embarrassed to tell them even to you."

Jo rolled her eyes. "Not that kind of story, Henry. There must be something. You're, what, 235 years old?" She elbowed him. "Just pick a story you haven't told in a century or so."

She was teasing him. He had lied to her, manipulated her, deceived her and put her life at risk – not all on purpose, but facts were facts – and yet she was still here. On his couch. Drinking his warm scotch and _teasing_ him.

Henry let go of her hand and wrapped his arm around her shoulders instead. "I wasn't in New York when the Brooklyn Bridge was inaugurated. I was in the Dutch East Indies that year. There was an active volcano there, and I was at loose ends at the time so I simply joined up with a ship out of Jakarta. It was rather reckless of me, I suppose, but I was over a hundred years old and…" He took a breath.

Here was something he had never told Abe, or even Abigail. Jo deserved this – something completely her own. A secret she didn't have to share with anyone else. "I was afraid to stay put anymore. Not because I would be found out, but because I could see another hundred years stretching out before me and I was afraid of becoming… stagnant. Jaded. Uninterested in the world around me, or worse: a relic lost in the past. I wanted to see something _new._ "

Jo rested her head on his shoulder. "You wanted to prove you could still experience new things, no matter how much you'd already seen. Makes sense. Did you do a lot of exploring?"

Henry chuckled dryly. "Not on that particular occasion. My timing, as it turns out, could have been better. Krakatoa erupted in late August of 1883. I've never died so many different ways in such a short period of time – there was the shock of the blast itself, lava, the ash fall, and of course the tsunami…"

Jo sat bolt upright and stared at him in horror. "My god, Henry. Don't you have any _happy_ stories?"

He laughed weakly. "The disasters do tend to stand out in one's memory." Then, because she still looked shaken, he pulled her close and tried again. "I may have inspired the character of Sherlock Holmes," he offered.

"Right," Jo scoffed. "Nice try, but I wrote a paper on Conan Doyle. Dr. Joseph Bell was his mentor at the University of Edinburgh, and _he_ was the inspiration for Sherlock Holmes. And don't tell me that was your pseudonym–"

"It wasn't," Henry assured her. "I never said I was the inspiration for the _entire_ character," he added in a deliberately offhand tone. "In fact, I may have only provided the name… and a certain predilection for pursuing the truth."

 Jo narrowed her eyes. "You're lying." Henry winced, and she patted his knee. "Sorry. I didn't mean it like that. But… you _are_ making it up, right?" Henry shook his head. "Exaggerating?"

He smirked. "I met Arthur Doyle at medical school in Edinburgh. It was the second time around for me – some of it was quite repetitive, but I did like to keep up with the latest advancements. I admit I have been more lax lately, depending more on journals than the classroom, but universities require so much blasted documentation nowadays…"

"Henry." Jo fought a smirk of her own. "Edinburgh. Medical school. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle."

"He hadn't been knighted yet, of course."

"Of course," she parroted.

"Hush," he admonished. "I'm trying to tell a story."

"While I'm young?" she joked, and then looked aghast. "Oh, Henry, I'm sorry–"

He smiled sadly at her. "No need to apologize. Abe's been using that line on me since he was ten years old. I'm inured."

Jo sighed. "I guess we'll have to learn our way around each other's sore spots all over again."

"I'm sure it will come with time." He watched her face. He could see her struggling against making another smart remark, and he nudged her elbow. "Out with it. Go on."

A smile tugged at her lips. "There's so many puns that I don't know where to start."

"Here's a proposition for you: I'll take you out to dinner if you come up with one I've never heard before," Henry challenged.

Jo's eyes lit up. "Is that a dare or a date?"

Henry froze for just a second, and then a sly grin stole over his face. "Yes."

"Challenge accepted, Dr. Morgan."

"I'm delighted to hear it, Detective."

From the kitchen came a loud mutter; Abe's voice was clearly pitched to carry. "It's about time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was with some trepidation that I included Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (before he was a Sir) as a character in the flashbacks. But as Henry was apparently meant to be an inspiration for the character of Sherlock Holmes, I assume the show would have gone there... so I did. Doyle really did go to medical school in Edinburgh, and on a sea voyage to the Arctic Circle, and he really did become intensely interested in spiritualism. The rest is sheer conjecture and fictionalization on my part.  
> The split brain experiments were also real, fascinating, and utterly bizarre. The incident Henry mentions about a man trying to shake his wife with one hand and stop himself with the other -- although, as he also mentions, such incidents were rare. _The Origins of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind_ is a real book by Julian Jaynes, and it deals with much more than the split brain experiments... although I have to admit that, like Lucas, it lost me when the subject of hallucinogenic mushrooms came up.


End file.
